


Tattoos

by Gilberrts



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Fluff, I'm embarrassed by myself tbh, Shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilberrts/pseuds/Gilberrts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First nsfw work, so it might be a bit awkward in places. Hope y'all like it regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattoos

“You know, Joffrey never wanted me to get tattoos.”

“Hm?” Margaery was nearly asleep before Sansa spoke. Her head is resting on Sansa's warm lap, and anyone would have started to drift off in that position, so you can't really blame her.

“He said I'd look like a slut.” Sansa says it almost casually, but Margaery knows better. Sansa hates talking about Joffrey, and has become expert at dodging questions and changing subjects to avoid it. Sansa corrects a line in her sketchbook, a furrow appearing between her brows.

“Joffrey's a cunt.” Sansa laughs at that, a sweet little sound that makes Margaery's stomach flip. Her internal organs have always done that around Sansa, for as long as they've been best friends, since the day they met.

And so Sansa's disturbing little non sequitur is not forgotten, but pushed to the back of Margaery's mind. She briefly entertains thoughts of siccing Lady on Joffrey the next time she sees him.

“There. I think it's done.” Sansa passes Margaery the sketchbook. The drawing of the rose is beautiful, done simply in black ink. She lightly runs her fingertips over the stark lines of ink, like she could experience Sansa's art through touch alone.

“You're quite talented, Sansa. This is wonderful. We never worked out a price, though,” Margaery says, and notices that's her voice is lower than usual, for some reason.

Sansa flushes bright red from her collarbones to the roots of her hair.

“Absolutely not. This isn't a commission, it's a gift for my girlfriend,” Sansa says indignantly. A second later, she turns skeptical. “Are you sure you want that on your skin forever? Ygritte could probably draw you a much better one.”

“You know she couldn't. I've decided, and there's absolutely nothing you can do to stop me,” Margaery teases.

“Oh well, if there's nothing I can do, I suppose I could possibly let you use my artwork.” Sansa gave her a lopsided grin.

“Possibly.”

“Where are you getting it, anyway?”

Margaery drags Sansa's hand, still holding her pen, so it settles across the left side of her collarbone.

“Right here.”

Yes, it could probably be called coming on a bit strong to put someone's hand practically on your tit, but Margaery has never been accused of subtlety. She has been called a great many other things, in a variety of creative and insulting ways, but shy was never one of them.

“Over the heart?”

“I know. A bit cliché, right?”

“Who cares if it's cliché? It's your body,” Sansa says, so sincere it makes Margaery's chest ache.

“Besides, I think it’ll look...nice,” Sansa murmurs, soft and low. Margaery stares up into those soft eyes, and there's no denying how far gone she is for Sansa. That ache in Margaery's chest becomes a tickle on her skin. She looks down at her collarbone.

Yep, Sansa definitely drew a dick there. A cartoon dick, but a surprisingly veiny one. Very tasteful.

The culprit is currently capping her pen, a grin larger than Dorne upon her face. Margaery bolts upright, revenge plan already forming in her mind.

“You little shit!” Sansa outright cackles in response, tossing her head back and letting loose.

“Arya used to do that to me all the time,” Sansa says, after recovering.

“Actually,” she says, after a beat, “she still does that to me.”

“Hope you enjoyed it.” Then Margaery jabs her in the sensitive skin under her ribs with two fingers, following it up by tickling her under the armpits.

Sansa howls with laughter and turns bright red, thrashing onto the couch. Margaery lunges forward to pursue her, kneeling on the couch between Sansa's thighs.

Between Sansa's spread legs, her looking flushed and breathless and debauched, all Margaery can do is stare. Sansa's shirt lifts up slightly with the heaving of her chest, revealing the soft white skin of her belly.

Well, thinks Margaery, now that I'm here. She presses a kiss to soft pink lips, still gasping for breath. Sansa meets her halfway, wrapping those impossibly long legs around Margaery's hips and using her arms to pull her down into the kiss by the back of the neck. Long fingers thread through Margaery's hair as the kiss deepens. Margaery’s hands fly to Sansa’s hips, sinking into the soft fat there.

Sansa moans into the kiss, responsive as ever. Margaery nips at Sansa's lip lightly, chasing those sweet little noises she makes. Sansa only moans and pulls her closer, hands grabbing onto Margaery’s back.

It's like two octopi fucking when they're wrapped up like this, all hands and legs trying desperately to get closer and closer to each other. Honestly, the fucking octopus analogy shouldn't make warmth bloom in Margaery’s stomach like that, but it's just what Sansa does to her. It's moments like this that it hits Margaery like an eighteen-wheeler that she's really, truly in love. It's terrifying, like flying and falling all at once, and Margaery never wants to lose this feeling.

They break apart, foreheads pressed together. Neither has the desire nor willpower to pull apart any further. They pant deeply, breathlessly giggling with sheer elation.

“Girls.”

Margaery slowly turns to the source of the interruption, already knowing who it is.

Already knowing this is going to be one of the top five worst moments of her life.

Olenna Tyrell stands in the doorway, barely five foot three and the most terrifying thing Margaery's ever seen. She wears a pastel floral pantsuit and her hair’s in a complex updo. She's also holding a coffee cup in one hand, and a bottle of whiskey in the other, though that was hardly unusual.

Out of the corner of her eye, Margaery can see Sansa sinking into the couch cushions like she's trying to swiftly exit existence.

“Not while I'm in the house, if you please. I didn't need to know that Sansa's a screamer.” Olenna calmly walked past them and exited the house, though not before downing the contents of the coffee cup and leaving it with the whiskey bottle on the coffee table. Margaery turns to Sansa, who stares at her in abject terror.

“She always has to make a dramatic exit.”

“I am not a screamer.” Margaery almost giggles at her stern expression.

“Sure you aren't. I kinda wish the mood wasn't ruined right now.” Margaery slowly moves in close, because she's an opportunist, sue her.

“Well, it was,” says Sansa, in that miffed voice she uses when she secretly agrees with Margaery, but certainly isn't going to admit it. Sansa picks up her sketchbook, discarded on the floor.

“Gods know it wasn't my fault.”

“You're the one that forgot she was here.”

“Anyone could have made that mistake!”

“Shh. Anyways, I was thinking before you jumped my bones, about this.” Sansa holds up a page in her sketchbook. It's a drawing of a wolf’s skull, simply done, without shading, but still intricate and beautiful. Margaery understands what Sansa means immediately.

“Where?”

“My side.” Sansa lifts her shirt, touching a hand to the left side of her rib cage. Margaery slides her palm over Sansa's hand, leaning in close.

“It'll hurt more if it's directly over bone,” Margaery murmurs into her ear, her left hand already sliding around Sansa's waist.

“I don't care.”

Margaery feels her eyelids growing heavy as she sucks a hickey below Sansa's ear. She presses hard kisses and sucks bruises onto that white neck, urged on by the sounds of Sansa moaning into her ear. It's almost like a trance, where her whole world narrows to Sansa. Her vibrant hair, her soft skin, the hitch of her breath, her moans hanging in the still air.

Margaery's hands catch on Sansa's shirt, still rucked up around her waist.

“Can I?” Margaery hopes it doesn't sound like the pitiful plea it is.

Sansa gasps out one desperate syllable, while Margaery’s left thumb rubs over the jut of her hipbone through the pink fabric of her skirt.

“Please,” she says. That one word floats in the air, and sends warmth flooding to the pit of Margaery's stomach.

She lifts the shirt over Sansa's head. Her bra is beautiful pink lace, and the sight fills Margaery with lust and admiration. She makes a mental note to ask Sansa where she got it later. Then Sansa is unbuttoning Margaery's shirt and mouthing at her jawline, and all thoughts fly from her mind like a flock of startled birds.

Margaery unhooks Sansa's bra with a deft twist of her fingers. She remembers all too well how embarrassing her first few attempts at that had been. That pretty bra ends up hanging over the seat of an overstuffed armchair Margaery's father always sits in. She thanks the gods it's summer, and her father is at work.

Margaery decides then and there that's quite enough thinking about her father, when she could be thinking about the two perfect breasts she's currently staring at. Gods, she wants her mouth on that.

She takes one in her mouth, grazing the sensitive skin with her teeth. Sansa’s back arches, grinding their hips together. Even though the angle isn't ideal, and they're both wearing clothing, the slight friction is like hot water down Margaery's spine.

Margaery could stay here forever, impractical as it may be. She doesn't have quite that long, however.

Margaery's hands move to the tops of Sansa's thighs, as she moves kneel on the floor between them. She glances up at Sansa's face.

“Okay?” she asks, one last confirmation of consent.

Sansa rolls her eyes and nods emphatically, so Margaery gets to work.

She lets her hands roam to the insides of Sansa’s thighs, pushing them apart. She pushed her skirt up, revealing pink panties edged with lace, to match the discarded bra. Completely soaked pink panties, Margaery notes to herself. She feels a grin spread comically wide across her face, because yes, Margaery is feeling the tiniest bit smug.

She doesn't take the panties off, only sucks hickies onto Sansa's pale thighs, trailing up along them. The sight of those beautiful purple marks sends a wave of lust through Margaery, and she resists the urge to put her hand under the waistband of her jeans. Instead, she presses an open-mouthed kiss to Sansa's sex, through the panties. She tastes like sweat and musk and a favorite craving fulfilled.

Margaery licks over the fabric, wet and messy, and Sansa squirms underneath her. She peels the panties off, dragging them off those legs that seem to go on forever. Margaery lets her hands spread on Sansa's thighs, greedy and possessive.

Margaery traces Sansa's folds with the tip of her tongue. She can practically feel Sansa vibrating out of her skin from all the foreplay, from being kept on the edge for so long without reaching completion. The muscles in her thighs are taut with the sensations overwhelming Sansa.

Well, thinks Margaery, why not show a little mercy.

She dives in, pressing broad strokes of her tongue into Sansa's core. Sansa's hands fly to the back of Margaery's head, tangling in her unbound hair. Margaery resists the urge to grin and rubs against Sansa's clit with the tip of her tongue in steady, insistent patterns. Sansa practically wails at the pressure.

This is what Margaery loves about sex with Sansa. Giving her pleasure, hearing those beautiful noises. Knowing just how easily Margaery can wreck Sansa, usually so stoic and composed.

Margaery finally decides to give Sansa what she really wants. She sucks hard on her clit, burying her face between her thighs. Those thighs clamp hard on her head like the world’s tightest pair of earmuffs. Margaery can barely breathe, but who cares about air when Sansa is coming with the most beautiful cry Margaery's ever heard?

Sansa comes down from her orgasm after several moments of tense muscles and and sweet screams. She takes one look at Margaery, and bursts into giggles.

“What?” asks Margaery, slightly annoyed but mostly amused. Sansa merely giggles more. Margaery can't help but join in.

  
Two weeks later.

Sansa sits up after Ygritte presses a square of gauze to her ribs, and loosens her death grip on Margaery's hand. Her ribs hurt like hell when she stands up, but pressing a kiss to Margaery's lips helps a little bit.

Margaery had used every curse word available to her while getting her tattoo. Sansa had simply clung to her girlfriend like a lifeline. Sansa feels triumphant, like she's gotten rid of Joffrey all over again.

“Getting the tattoos isn't quite as fun as planning them,” says Margaery. Sansa can already feel herself flushing. Sometimes, she really hates her.


End file.
